The Blonde in the Background
by WarblersGonnaWarble
Summary: There are rumors flying around about me. How I came to become a Warbler, what my backstory is, who I'm involved with, and everything else. Honestly, it's bizarre. How memorable can I be? My name isn't that uncommon. Jeff. Why would that stands out in anyone's mind? For someone in the background, I sure get a lot of attention... maybe it's the hair.
1. Chapter 1

The weird thing about feeling left out is that it takes a steady toll in you. You slowly become more and more desperate to feel that feeling you've been searching for your whole life. You just want to be included, to be a part of something. It gets to the point where you'll settle for almost anyone or anything, just for a little attention. Jealousy fades and is replaced with a constant yearning to feel loved.

Have you ever heard of a floater? A floater is someone that drifts, or floats, from group to group. In this case, the groups I'm talking about are the stereotypes that everyone in school seems to group themselves by. They stay very separate. The AV nerds don't talk to the drama dorks, who don't talk to the cheerleaders, who don't talk to the chess club, who don't talk to the band geeks.

I, however, talked to all of the above. One day I was behind a computer, the next I was packing a trombone around the football field. That wasn't, of course, to say that I was ever accepted. I wasn't. I couldn't program as well as the AV kids, or do a triple backflip like the cheerleaders, and I could barely make a noise that didn't sound like a fart out of the trombone.

And it wasn't just school, either. I was an outsider in my own home. See, I was the oldest of five children. I had four incredibly talented siblings. Jeanette, John, Jack, and Jerry. My parents were fond of the letter J, in case you couldn't tell.

They each had a gift of sorts.

Jeanette, besides being extremely fashion-inclined and obsessed with clothing, seemed fairly normal at first. But she was actually the most talented artist on the face of the planet, I was sure of that much. She had covered the walls of the room in doodles and it came across looking like a beautiful mural, painted by some famous artist. I could barely draw a stick person that didn't look like the offspring of a lollipop that had mated with a tree.

John was a master at any sport you threw at him. He was captain of his junior-high football team, soccer team, and basketball team. He was also the pitcher on his baseball team AND he did track. I didn't know how he kept at all of it, but he did. He even managed to stay barely eligible. It was incredible to me, how athletic he was. I couldn't run five feet without falling firmly on my face.

Jerry was a tech guru. He could make any computer into a military-grade defense mechanism. His programming skills were one the most amazing things I'd ever witnessed. He could hack a government database, it seemed, and I could barely login to my email account without having to try at least six times,

Then there's Jack. Notice how I skipped him earlier? Well, that's because he's the worst of all. I had always fancied myself a musical prodigy. A stage was the only place I ever felt truly at ease on. But I knew, as soon as Jack was born, that I was not the musical one. He could play practically any instrument he touched by the age of four. He learned to dance as soon as he learned to walk. He learned to sing as soon as he learned to talk. My mother and my father doted upon him, booking him shows and getting him any lesson he wanted, not that he needed them.

Then there was me. I became the way for my parents to make sure my siblings had what they needed. Every day was the same for me: "Jeff, don't forget to wet Jeanette's paintbrushes. She has to finish that painting for her art show," or, "Jeff, did you remember to wash John's uniform? He has a game today," or, "Jeff, let Jerry borrow your laptop. It has better software, and he has to finish the program for his competition tomorrow," or, worst of all, "Jeff, why don't you tune Jack's guitar? He has a show at the mall today. They love him, our little star!"

I needed out of that house. I could never tell my parents that, because my father would just suggest military school. They'd been trying to reform me for a while. I wasn't exactly the best behaved. I had the tendency to argue with anyone in a position of authority, and my parents had spent half of my eighth grade year in the principal's office. It got to the point where they stopped being angry, but just looked at me with disappointment in their eyes. That was more painful.

I hadn't minded junior high so much, though my teachers had minded me. I had a girlfriend and friends, and life was okay. Of course, my parents disapproved of both, but I had ceased to care. We ran that school, and I loved it.

Then I started high school, and everything changed. I was scrawny, and I wasn't great at sports. My musicality was not at all appreciated, it was mocked. I went from being top dog to being that loser that no one would talk to. My friends had transferred off to other schools. The only constant I had was my girlfriend, Allison.

My parents, particularly my father, would tell you that Allison was controlling. That she was the reason I had become a trouble-maker in the first place. They were wrong. If anything, I influenced her. They were furious when they found out we were attending the same high school.

Allison was almost instantly popular. She was pretty, and sweet, and had been a cheerleader since first grade. I, however, was constantly crammed in a locker. The football players had played countless pranks on me. Hanging me from the goalpost by my underpants, stuffing me in bin of their dirty laundry, throwing any variety of food right in my face. Allison had tried to help, but her influence only went so far. It always ended with the guys hitting on her hopelessly and telling her that she could do better than a singing freak like myself. I had been forced to quit the glee club I had joined, and transfer out of choir, but the torment hadn't stopped.

I was ending up in the principal's office just as much as I had last year. We'd only been in school a couple months, and the principal already had my parents on speed-dial. But this time it was for a different reason. Teachers would notice bruises, or I'd be found in a locker. They'd tried to catch the bullies, and a few had been suspended. But they would come back with a vengeance. The school had a winning football team for the first year in ages, and, as regretful as they pretended to be about it, they just couldn't suspend the whole team. Or the quarterback. Not because they were above the law, but because they had no definitive proof. Sure, that guy on the security footage kind of looked like him, but it could've been anyone.

I was sick of living in terror. This was the day that I was going to ask the inevitable question. I was going to beg my parents to let me transfer schools.

I got out of bed that Sunday morning, feeling something I hadn't felt in what seemed like years. Hope. I tossed back my black comforter and took a deep breath. I clambered over to the pile of clothes that had swallowed my dresser whole. I dug through them, searching for a shirt that smelled somewhat clean. I finally located a black and white, horizontally-striped v-neck. I smiled at it. It was probably one of my favorite shirts. It was comfortable as well as being one of the few shirts that fit my beanpole figure right. I then donned a black pair of skinny jeans. I shed the red plaid pajama pants I wore and picked up my Van Halen concert tee off of the floor. I was going to use it as a pajama shirt, but I had developed a habit of sleeping without one. I tossed it back at the dresser, and chucked my pajama pants into a heap of clothes in the corner.

In case you hadn't caught on yet, my room was a huge mess. There were clothes everywhere, and blankets on the floor, and posters of every 70's and 80's rock band you could name on my wall. I made my way through the filth and escaped into the hallway. I made a beeline for the bathroom, where I changed and brushed my platinum blonde hair. I then turned on the mirror. I fixed myself with a wide-eyed, puppy dog look. "Mother, father," I began, taking a deep breath. "As you know, going to school at Garrison hasn't been great for me. I keep getting beat up and I probably deserve it because I used to do the same thing to other people but I really think that you... you should let me transfer. My grades will probably go up, you know, and I'll have more of an opportunity to sing and... and..."

I face-palmed. Wow. This was not going to work. I was terrible with words. I briefly considered asking Jack to write a song about it for me. My parents always fawned over his songs. He could get anything he wanted with them. But I quickly cast that idea aside. I didn't want to be dependent on Jack. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life owing him one. This was something I needed to do by myself.

"Mother, father, I hate going to school at Garrison. The kids there try to kill me and I probably could tough it out, but I don't think that I should anymore. I know I used to be a trouble-maker, but maybe transferring could fix—"

A loud, banging noise caused me to jump. I cried out as my elbow collided with the sink. My arm went numb and I clutched it to my chest, muttering curse words under my breath. I opened the door to the bathroom and stared into the face of John. His brown eyes were narrow, his floppy, mouse-colored hair was covering part of his face. He was wearing shorts, a black sweatshirt, knee-high socks, and cleats. I winced. Why did he insist on wearing them in the house? I would have to clean up any marks they left on the floor.

"Sunday soccer practice?" I asked, rolling my eyes. "Do you ever do anything else? Isn't it football season?"

He glowered at me. "Soccer is a fall sport at school too, dweeb. I do both. But football's been taking up most of my time, so I'm trying to keep up with soccer. It's more than you have planned for today. What are you going to do, mop up Jeanette's art mess? There's some pretty old clay stuck under a few of the chairs, if you want to tidy it up. Or maybe Jack will let you hold his guitar, if you ask really nicely," he smirked, his voice tinged with malice.

My face reddened. "You talk a big talk for the sixth grader who lost the junior high championship game for his soccer team last year. Is that why you're insisting on practicing all the time? Because you sucked and everyone hated you for what happened?"

"Newsflash, Jeff: it's not sixth grade anymore. My teammates don't care about that. That was last year. You need to wake up. I'm not a sixth grader, and you're not an eighth grader. You're not the king of the school, you're just another faceless loser."

His words were like a fist to the gut. The wind was knocked out of me. Silently, I moved past him, shoving him a little as I did. He looked at me smugly. I went down the stairs, but when I reached the bottom, I almost ran into Jeanette. She had a huge grin on her face. Her hands were covered in blue paint, and there were splotches all over the smock she wore. "Hi Jeff!" she chirped excitedly. "Have you seen the mural I'm painting in the kitchen? The floor as has never looked more fabulous! Oh, I haven't told our parents yet, so if you could not mention it..."

"Okay..." I answered warily, not sure I wanted to know.

"It has an hour until it dries, so try to make sure no one goes in there."

I sighed, shaking my head. "Sure. Of course. Why not?"

"You rock!" she leaned in to give me a hug but I made a squeak of protest.

"Jeanette, no, wait! I actually like this sh—"

It was too late. I heard the soft squelch of the paint as it made contact with my back. I crinkled my nose and Jeanette recoiled, an apology on her face. "Oh gosh! Sorry! You probably have blue handprints on your back now!"

I exhaled slowly. She looked at me fearfully, probably expecting me to start screaming. Normally, I would've. I was famous for my temper. But today, I did no such thing. I had other things to deal with. I couldn't currently afford to get in trouble. "It's fine, Jeanette," I said tiredly. "I have other shirts."

She gaped at me. "R-really?"

"Yeah. It's not that big of a deal," I lied. "I'm not angry at you." My inner rage snarled at this, but I bit it back.

She looked at me gratefully. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were going to yell at me. I'm sorry about your shirt, Jeff, I'll buy you a new one, if you want."

"It's fine," I assured her.

She smiled at me one last time, before running up the stairs, probably to the bathroom, so she could wash her hands.

We actually had several bathrooms. Our house was pretty huge. The reason John and I were forced to share was because our rooms were right across the hall from one another. Jeanette's room was on the other end of the floor. She had her own bathroom. Jerry's room was in the basement, so he had his own, and Jack had requested the room in the attic. He shared our bathroom with us, unfortunately. It was a terribly inconvenient setup, but it was life.

I rounded the corner into the living room. Jerry sat in a recliner, a laptop on his lap. If the pink stickers were any indication, it was Jeanette's. He glanced up at me and offered a small wave. He was only a fourth grader and was probably one of the most technologically-advanced people I'd ever met. "Hey Jeff."

"Hi Jerry," I responded.

I then turned to look at the couch. My parents sat there, engaged in conversation with Jack. His guitar was propped up against the couch. He noticed me before they did. "Oh, hey Jeff," he greeted me lazily. "I was just showing our parents my new song. Do you want to hear it?"

"Uh..." No I did not. Another reminder of how much better than me everyone thought he was? No thank you. "Sure, Jack, but maybe later. I kind of need to talk to you guys," I fixed my parents with a pleading gaze.

They exchanged looks. "Okay, Jeffrey, what is it?" my mother asked, though her expression implied that she was only humoring me.

"Um, can I talk to you guys... alone?"

Jerry looked up, his brow furrowed. "But I'm working on updating Jeanette's anti-virus software! She keeps trying to play online games. Honestly, it's a shock to me that she hasn't entirely corrupted this poor laptop yet!"

"You can take it into the other room, Jerry," my father said sternly.

"Can I stay?" Jack questioned hopefully, widening his dark eyes in the perfect puppy dog look that I could never pull off.

"No, I think Jeff needs to tell us something," my mother told him calmly.

I couldn't help but beam. They never told Jack no! His face fell into a pout. He sulked, crossing his arms.

"Why don't you and your brother go into the kitchen and get the bacon out of the fridge? Your father will cook some up and we can have a nice family breakfast before John goes to practice."

The kitchen? Uh-oh.

"Okay, fine," Jack huffed, turning on his heel and storming out of the room, Jerry in tow.

"Wait, I wouldn't—" I attempted, just a few seconds late.

"MOTHER!" Jack yelled furiously.

She stood and rushed over to where Jack stood. The floor was covered in a beautiful ocean scene, and Jack was standing on a turtle's head. He wasn't wearing socks or shoes, and the paint was clearly still wet. I hid a smirk.

"Oh my god!" my mother exclaimed. "JEANETTE YVONNE STERLING, GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE!"

I sighed.

The girl came into the room, an innocent look on her face. "Hello mother," she said sweetly.

"Jeanette, what is this? You painted the kitchen floor?" she demanded.

"The linoleum was so plain..." the artist pointed out weakly.

"My feet are covered in paint!" Jack pointed out angrily.

My father came into the room, take one look at the mess and took a deep breath. "Jack, go wash your feet off. Go through the dining room and use the guest bathroom. Stay off the carpet. Jeanette, you'll clean up the footprints Jack leaves, then you'll remove all this paint."

Her eyebrows skyrocketed. "That'll take forever!"

"Then you better get started," he ordered.

Her shoulders slumped. "Yes, father."

With that taken care of, we headed back into the living room as if nothing had ever happened. Jerry scurried past us, shaking with laughter at Jack's misfortune. He headed upstairs, and I could hear Jack padding into the bathroom, grumbling under his breath.

"Anyways," my mother announced dismissively, "what was it you wanted to talk to us about?"

"School," I said bluntly. I cringed. This was already off to a bad start. "I don't like Garrison. I don't have any friends there, and my grades are slipping because I'm missing most of my classes. Not because I'm cutting them, but because I can't get out of my own locker. I used to be in trouble constantly, but now I'm in a different kind of trouble. The bullying has gotten so bad that I can barely sleep at night." I hated myself for the way my voice was shaking. "I love music, I love singing, so I joined choir and the school glee club. That only made it worse. You know we've been to the principal, but they refuse to expel the kids who are doing it. I'm terrified of school now, I'm not learning a thing."

They just stared at me.

"I want to go to school somewhere where I don't have to worry about bringing extra underwear in case of wedgies. I've done some research and there's a private school, Dalton Academy, not too far from here. It's only an hour away. I would go there full time, but I could come home on the weekends and holidays and any other free time. They have an amazing arts program. Their show choir, the Warblers, has placed in the top three at Nationals for the last four years."

My mother's jaw dropped. "You want to transfer schools?"

"Y-yes. I know I shouldn't run from my problems, but I just can't deal with it anymore. Dalton is an all boys boarding school, and it has a no bullying, zero tolerance policy. It is kind of expensive, but I've been saving up money from my snow-shoveling and lawn-mowing business. Plus all my allowances. I can pay for the first year's tuition."

Still, they looked at me blankly.

"Look, I know that I've done some bad things in the past. But I've turned over a new leaf, I swear. I'm... I'm not the same person I was. I won't go if you don't want me to, but I... I need this." Tears were beginning to gather in my eyes. I watched them hopelessly, my heart aching as I gazed at their expressionless faces. "Please say something," I begged them, my voice cracking. "Please."

My father spoke first, "Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure this Dalton Academy will be a fit for you? Transferring in the middle of the first quarter... it's risky, Jeffrey."

"I know. I talked to the principal. He told me that they can forward my transcripts without much trouble at all. I'll be taking almost exactly the same classes. He talked to my junior high school, and he has my transcripts from there too. Dalton wants good students, and their headmaster agreed, considering the circumstances, to look at my junior high transcripts, rather than the ones from Garrison. And you know, Cousin Katy lives in Westerville, so she can take me to Dalton. She agreed to it. She said she'd keep an eye on me."

My mother smiled slightly. "You've really done the work for this."

"I really want this. I know I won't be home, but I can do anything you need me to on the weekends. And we can Skype every night. I can look at any of Jeanette's paintings, and Jack can play any song he's written, and Jerry, well, he's never had a problem communicating using technology. Plus John will have to share the bathroom with one less person, and he'll be thrilled about that."

"This isn't about your siblings, Jeffrey," my father informed me. "It's about you. And I'm not sure that this is best for you."

They still weren't sold. Fine. Time for the clincher.

"It will get me away from Allison."

Those were painful words for me. The thought of leaving my girlfriend, and best friend, for the rest of high school made me feel awful. I loved Allison, despite the many flaws that my parents saw. But I knew that this was the only thing that could convince them, as terrible as I felt for doing it. I hoped that Allison would forgive me.

My parents' eyes widened, and they turned to look at each other. It was like they had a silent conversation using only their eyes, because they looked back at me and in unison, they responded, "Okay."

"Really?" I felt a huge grin break across my face.

My mother nodded. "Yes," she confirmed. "You can go to Dalton Academy. And you keep your money. Use it for food, or school supplies, or whatever else you may need. We'll pay for your tuition. We have money, Jeffrey, it might as well go towards your education."

We did have money. Lots of money. My father was a pharmacist, and my mother worked as a prosecuting attorney. They were both constantly busy, which was why I had been left to take care of my younger siblings. It also helped that they both came from wealthy families as well. But they had always been insistent that I earned my own living, so I hadn't grown up as spoiled as most rich kids did. I hadn't even gotten an allowance until I was thirteen, which was only two years ago.

"Thank you so much!" I threw myself at my parents, enveloping them both in a bear hug. I was so happy. I couldn't believe that it actually went that well. "Thank you!"

"Don't make us regret it," my father joked lightly.

I smiled broadly. "I won't!"

If only I had known.


	2. Chapter 2

My seat on the train was uncomfortable. I continuously fidgeted, alternating between stretching my back and fixing my suitcase, which sat next to me. I was feeling unusually anxious, which was unpleasant. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skinny jeans. I exhaled, fanning myself with my hand. Why was it so hot on that darned train? I was panting like a dog!

A little old couple walked past me, and I could see concern on both of their faces. The woman stopped, letting go of her husband's hand. "Hello, young man. Are you alright? Do you have a fear of vehicular transportation?"

I laughed uneasily, though I was flattered by her concern. "No, no. I'm okay. Thank you."

"You're not afraid of trains?" she checked.

"No," I answered truthfully.

Her husband put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Gladys, you're scaring him. I think the poor boy is just nervous about something. Going to see your lady friend, champ?"

My eyes widened. "Um, no I'm not."

"Well, you should always visit her. Don't worry when people say you're too young. Gladys and I were married at sixteen, and it's been fifty-two years."

She looked back at him disdainfully. "Fifty-four years, Henry!" she reminded him grouchily.

"Oh, yes. That's right. I always forget the first two because they were so blissful, it felt like we were still just dating."

She rolled her eyes at him, then turned back to me. "What about you, young man? Do you have a girlfriend? Because I'm sure you must. I'm sure your hair is all the rage these days, and you're certainly not unattractive. I bet my granddaughter would like to meet you, actually. Her name is Claire, and she—"

"Hi sweetie," a feminine voice interrupted.

I turned to see a girl with long, wavy hair. There was a blue streak towards the front, popping amongst the see of dark blonde. She was thin, and wearing a tan shirt with fringe along the bottom edge and a depiction of a dreamcatcher on it. She had a pair of baggy, tattered jeans. Her converse were blue, and actually matched my red ones perfectly. She was pretty, in a strange sort of way. Her nose was kind of oddly shaped, but it suited her face. There were light freckles across it. Her ruby lips curved into a smile and she took the seat across from me. A subtle wink told me that she knew I was confused, and just to go with it.

"Who's this?" she asked innocently, looking up at the couple, smiling.

"Oh, you must be the young lad's girlfriend!" Henry greeted warmly. "I'm Henry, this is Gladys. We were just talking to your friend here, we thought he was scared of trains."

She giggled and outstretched a hand. "I'm Storm, it's nice to meet you."

"Storm? What an unusual name!" Gladys exclaimed.

"My parents were hippies," she shrugged, grinning.

Henry looked at me next. "We never did learn your name, champ," he said expectantly.

"Uh, I'm Jeff," I answered, shaking his hand as well.

They smiled.

Gladys' gaze flickered between me and Storm. "So how did you two meet?"

I wasn't sure what to do, but Storm tackled the challenge head on. "Oh, we went to summer camp together."

"Music camp," I supplied, hoping to be helpful.

She didn't look irritated, she just rolled her eyes playfully. "Yeah, which was fine for you. You're so musical it's not fair. How many instruments do you play again, show-off?"

"Four," I puffed my chest at her. "Guitar, bass, piano, and... trombone."

"I play guitar!" she practically shouted, sticking her tongue out at me. "And I sing... kind of."

I reached out and took her hand, trying to sell it. "You do sing, Storm. You sound good."

She made a face at me, and playfully hit my knee. "You always sugarcoat things. I'm not fragile, Jeff. You don't have to spare my feelings."

"I'm not! I think you're perfect at everything you do."

"That's so sweet," Gladys swooned. "Young love. Do you remember when we were that age, Henry?"

They wandered off, chatting about the old times. They were a cute couple. As soon as they were out of sight, Storm turned to me.

"Hi, I'm Stormcloud, but my friends call me Storm. I'm sorry for what just happened. You looked panicked, like you really didn't want to hurt their feelings by saying you didn't want to meet their granddaughter. It wasn't my place to jump in, but I'm an actress and I felt like I could help, so I—"

"Thank you," I cut her off with a smile. I let go of her hand. "I'm Jeffrey, but my friends call my Jeff. And I'm an actor, or I like to think I am, so that was actually pretty fun," I admitted.

She laughed. "You're pretty cool. Oh, and my parents really are hippies, in case you were wondering. I have a sister named Raindrop, and another sister named Toadstool."

"My parents are obsessed with the letter J," I told her. "I have four siblings: Jeanette, John, Jack, and Jerry."

"And you're Jeff? Wow. Youngest kid?"

I shook my head. "Oldest. Are you the youngest?"

"Nope," she responded, popping the p. "I'm the third."

I blinked. "Isn't that the youngest?"

She chuckled. "No. My dad has a kid from his first marriage, he's way older than we are. He's like in his late twenties. His name is Nathaniel. He was before my dad became a hippie," she explained frankly. "Raindrop is older than me too, she's eighteen. Toadstool is only eight."

I gazed at her. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen. You?"

"Turned fifteen last month," I smiled slightly. "But I'm still only a freshman."

"I'm a freshman too. I turn fifteen in May."

I sat back, more relaxed now. "So where are you headed?" I questioned.

"Oh, I was visiting my aunt. I'm headed home. What about you, blondie? Where are you going to? I'm assuming it's not your home, I would've seen you around."

"I'm transferring here," I admitted, albeit somewhat sheepishly. "I just needed to get away from my old school."

She nodded, a knowing look on her face. "Were you the one doing the bullying, or the one being bullied?"

I paused, staring at her. "Both?" I could tell I sounded conflicted. I ran a hand through my floppy hair. "I don't know. I guess I was the bully last year," I responded slowly. "But this year, in high school... the tables have sort of turned, you know?"

Storm frowned slightly. "Sounds like you've had an interesting year," she retorted carefully.

"You could say that."

"So where are you transferring? Which school? Westerville has quite a few. We're kind of known for our education, as lame as that sounds."

I hesitated, wondering if what I said next would change how she saw me. "Well..." I began, "I'm going to go to Dalton Academy."

"Oh!" she smiled wide, displaying her teeth. There was a slight gap in between the front ones. "Nathaniel went there."

I cocked my head. "Do you go to its sister school?"

"Crawford Country Day? No. My parents don't believe in letting the 'system' educate their children. We're homeschooled. But I consider myself a freshman," she explained, as I blinked in confusion. "But don't get me wrong, I have nothing against school. Especially private schools. Dalton's a great one, too. You said you were musical, right? Played a bunch of instruments?"

"Yeah, that's right. And I sing," I told her, wiggling my eyebrows.

She laughed. "Then you'll like Dalton a lot. They have an incredible music program. Their matching band is stellar. Though there's not too much need for it... their sports teams are... well, lacking. But their show choir! It's one of the best in the country, let alone the state. The Warblers, I believe they're called. The cool thing is... the whole school idolizes them."

"Wait, wait, wait," I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Show choir is cool? And sports aren't?"

Storm giggled, brushing a lock of blue and blonde hair out of her brown eyes. "Dalton is a little backwards, but Nathaniel loved it. He was a Warbler, if I remember correctly."

"That... that would be cool," I found myself saying. "I actually tried show choir in my last school but..."

"The hierarchy of the student body descended upon you with all of their wrath?" she supplied helpfully.

That was enough to make me burst into laughter. "Pretty much," I agreed.

"Then you should audition for the Warblers, Jeff," she suggested sweetly. "If you sing as much as I think you do, there's no question about it. Auditions go all first quarter, so I'm sure you'll have a chance. School just started a month ago."

"But they sound like they're really good..."

"I'm sure you are too," she assured me, putting a hand on my knee. Suddenly, she glanced out the window. "We're getting close," she informed me, pulling back.

"Do..." I felt my face reddening. "Do you have a cell phone?"

She smiled. "Well, normally my parents don't believe in conforming to society's technological revolution. They don't trust computers, phones, or the Internet."

My shoulders slumped. "Oh."

"Buuuuut..." she sang, tapping her finger against her chin, "I made my own money tutoring high school kids last year." At my incredulous look, she shrugged. "My homeschooling has me in advanced everything. But that's not important. I took the money, and I bought myself a phone. It's not the newest, but it works."

I was half expecting her to pull out a flip-phone or an old Nokia or something. Instead, she withdrew an iPhone. It was a newer version than mine was. My jaw dropped. "Wow."

"It's not that bad," she sulked.

I shook my head rapidly. "No, no, it's not. It's actually better than mine." I pulled out my own iPhone. She couldn't help but smirk. It was smaller than hers, and had a crack in the screen. If I hadn't been saving up for Dalton tuition, I would've bought a new one. "Want to exchange numbers?" I offered.

"Sure," she consented.

We did so, plugging each other in. As a joke, I put a heart by my name. She handed me my phone back and I couldn't help but chuckle. She put her contact name as "Girlfriend" with a winky face.

"Might as well keep up appearances," she kidded. "We've been dating since music camp, remember?"

I didn't want to tell her that I had an actual girlfriend and that could be potentially confusing. Then again, Allison was just plugged in as "Ally 3" so I probably didn't have too much to worry about. I just laughed, hiding my unease.

A voice came through the loudspeakers, but it was so covered in static that I couldn't make out a word he was saying. I turned to Storm, confused. "We're almost there," she translated helpfully. "We'll be arriving in a minute or less. So, who's picking you up at the train station to take you to Dalton?"

"A cousin," I answered. "She lives here."

"What's her name?" Storm inquired curiously. "I know most everyone around here."

"Katy," I answered. "Katy Sterling. At least, that's her name right now. She'll be Katy Harris in a few months. She's engaged."

"Wait! Is she engaged to a Peter Harris?" the crazy blonde shouted.

I blinked in surprise. "Yeah, that's right."

"I know her! She lives a few blocks down from me," she explained, calming down. "Peter was actually a good friend of Raindrop's. He's like four years older than her, or so. It might've been five or six, maybe seven. I don't really remember."

"Peter is twenty-four, so six. Katy is twenty-two," I supplied.

"Right! Well, Peter was actually a childhood friend of Raindrop's. he lived closer then. He helped introduce her to people outside of our neighborhood. That's how she met her boyfriend Mark. Peter met Katy a few years back and moved farther away to live with her."

I laughed. "It's a small world after all," I sang teasingly.

The train began slowing down, and after a minute, we came to a stop. Storm stood, and began walking back to where I assumed she had been sitting before. "See you around, Jeff!"

"Uh... bye!" I called back, my head spinning. I grabbed my suitcase and quickly made my way off the train, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand.


End file.
